


Neville's Great Adventure

by Chuck_Johannsen



Category: Harry Potter - Prince of Slytherin
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 18:42:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17126693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chuck_Johannsen/pseuds/Chuck_Johannsen
Summary: Written for the PoS competition.





	Neville's Great Adventure

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Harry Potter and the Prince of Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15828654) by [TheSinister_Man](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSinister_Man/pseuds/TheSinister_Man). 



With all the suave reflexes of an expert duelist, Harry lowered a single shoulder, lifting it up again to drop the other. Pellets, fired from some inane modified ‘pea shooter’ developed by a deranged wizard, passed through the spaces. An easy rotation, and the bracketing shots fired in the reverse direction passed before and behind his hips, resulting in the surprised cries both ahead and behind.

A smile crossed his lips. The Express was a good method for training reaction times. The Twins were especially good, if asked politely.

Just ahead, a door slammed open. Only his superb responses allowed him to dodge a boy roughly his age, whom lunged out of the carriage. Strange gelatin covered his hair and dripped down his shoulders, turning a white-blonde into a dirty yellow. It seemed extremely sticky too, ripping strands every time his hands touched the formerly long locks.

Harry’s eyebrows lifted. “Malfoy?”

Bloodshot eyes snapped to his face. “Potter. Do _not_ go in there. He’s a menace!”

Harry watched the young boy struggle to his feet, arms spread like a denuded waterfowl, only to collapse as the door shot open once more, and his two associates fell over each other, smashing Malfoy into the floor once more. Their clothing shared a similar sheen, with the added benefit of a wondrously repugnant odor.

Carefully, Harry stepped around the pile of convulsing revulsion. He peeked through the glass partition, cast an astonished glance down at the trio, and stepped inside.

Within, a slightly chubby young man fussed over a drooping plant, making worried clucking noises.

“Neville?”

Intelligent eyes came up, focused on Harry, then dismissed his presence. “Oh, hullo. You wouldn’t happen to have any malenclaw clippings, would you?”

“Not in this pair of trousers ….” Harry responded slowly.

The young man’s nose wrinkled. “No matter. I’ll make do with what I have. They should make it to Hogwarts after today."

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Today?”

He didn’t have to be a Seer to observe the faint twitch crossing Neville’s face. Memory recall was a renowned science, if one paid attention to details.

 

* * *

 

_5:25 AM, Hall of Passage_

_Ministry Building_

“Hurry, Neville,” Lady Longbottom stepped faster through the crowd. “The train leaves in a few hours, and we must be ready. Remember: enunciate clearly, and _do not_ lose your new wand.”

“Yes Gran,” Neville responded. His eyes never left the incredibly rare plant specimen in his hands, donated for his research by the eccentric member of his family.

Suddenly, he felt a push. His plant, the _mimblus mimbletonia_ jolted out of his hands, landing on a single edge of the pot. Unbreakable charms were laid, but it still made his heart leap into his throat. “No!”

Out of the corner of one eye he saw a strange wizard that had been walking through the ministry, Ozwald had it been? His older siblings kept calling him ‘Ozzie’. There was a famous wizarding family in the Colonies, the Oz clan, he could recall. But this ‘Ozzie’ was chasing a small rodent that seemed to – clink – as it ran. The rodent bounced off the plant pot, sending it rolling towards the Floos.

“No Petey! Don’t run, I found us some saxophones _!_ _Saxophones_ Petey! It’ll be great!”

Neville ignored the strange wizard and took off after his plant. The discus underside balanced perfectly, just as a witch stepped out of a floo, smacking the plant back into the middle of the Ministry. He redoubled his pace, catching up as it lost momentum. This time it slipped into a green-lit floo, a fire that roared as an entire bowl of powder fell into its depths – knocked into place by the fleet-footed representative of _rodentia_.

“ _Neville!”_ he heard his grandmother shriek. “Be careful!”

He had just enough time to dive after the plant, seizing the rim with two fingers. For a moment, he relaxed, feeling the fuzzy sensation of green fire tickle his hand. Redoubling his grip, he turned his head back. “Sure, Gran!”

The fire whirled, sucking him into its innards faster than a speeding Snitch. He could feel his precious vegetation still present under the strength of his fingertips, but the jostling motion tugged. Neville redoubled his efforts, streamlining his legs, retracting his other hand by the elbow so the fist held an aerodynamic profile by his chest. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself to move faster. Faster. _Faster_. And in response, the edges of the flowerpot became more solid in his grasp.

There were side effects, though.

Neville shot out of the exit Floo, travelling many times faster than the safety threshold. His school clothes, donned early by Gran’s insistence, reacted to the intentional-accidental magic by shifting to their dark blue coloration – and the floo fire itself barely had a chance to begin its green coloration. The end result had Neville launch from the Surinam Botanical Conservatory in blue, a cape of crimson flame rippling back from his shoulders.

“It’s a bird!” He heard one wizard exclaim – but the next thing he heard was the smashing of glass as he flew through the protective barriers.

The plant seized the opportunity to slip out of touch, floating a bare inch beyond his fingertips. Intent upon regaining his hold, Neville ignored the long fall over open jungle below, ignored the dozens of wizards clustering around the hole he’d punched through the Conservatory shields and concentrated with all his might.

Bare fractions of a centimeter closed between his hand and the enchanted protections. Then Neville happened to look a little higher – and became angry. A burst of power edged him a little higher than expected, drifting the plant into his face, touching a sap-covered portion into his mouth. Above, the hungry avian tried to dive at Neville, claws extended, power shining in its eyes.

The plant, squeezed by the faintest touch of his hand, sent a drop of its fluid into the bird’s eye. The bird reacted, back-winging in terror, sending feathers flying everywhere.

It just so happened that the Greater Sky-hawk, known to ornithologists everywhere as _Aves Pila Deluxe_ , possessed a unique defense mechanism, and feathers commonly used as a component of Floo powder. When assaulted, it molted in seconds, rather than days, leaving just the minimum for flight. It would regenerate within hours, but potential predators were blinded by the barrage of glittering, burr-like edged feathers. Consequently, Neville received an inadvertent attack he did not expect.

“ _Dattebayo! Dat boyd!_ ”Neville spat out the taste of sap, along with a pair of feathers. “Bad bird!”

He shook his be-featherd head, pulling the plant closer, to keep it safe. A gentle thumping came from his feet, as he landed, a tiny trail of smoke coming up from his boot heel.

“Great,” he glanced around. “Where did that floo take me?”

Had Neville looked behind, he would have seen a precipice, the edge of a volcanic cliff. Lava churned beneath the ledge, bare inches from his heels. _Pila_ feathers, stuck to his clothing like a coat, shook in the heat-induced breeze, and the lowest feathers shivered an awkward cadence. A small piece of wood, hardened material snapped off some time in the past, began to glow like charcoal.

“Well,” Neville started down the mountain. “No time like the present. Is that a campfire ahead?”

A thin trail of smoke, visible above lush greenery could be seen. Neville admired the plants for a few minutes – when would he have a chance to see such a place again? After a short hour of pure enjoyment, he gave the last native _tentaculum_ a farewell pat. Finding them in the wild? There were only three places in the world hosting native-growth _tentaculum_ , which meant he was either in the Tanzania Reserve, Australia, or Suriname.

“Can’t be Australia,” Neville murmured. One of the spike-studded vines whistled past his ear, missing an attempt to retrieve the boy. “Plants are too friendly. Tanzania might be the place but – Suriname is possible, too.”

Shrugging, the feather-covered boy continued his descent. Monkeys, high above in the treetops shrieked warnings, and in uncoordinated attacks, threw sticks, bits of fruit and detritus at him.

Neville snagged the clippings at once, stuffing them in a Botanist’s Friend, gifted by Harry a few short weeks ago. Smiling, he looked up to thank the monkeys – and promptly tripped over some kind of wire strung across the path.

He didn’t notice a series of darts pass over his prone figure, or notice how the tree they struck began to melt.

Several minutes later, three falls, and one more angry monkey barrage later, he found himself deeper in the jungle. The feather coating, bedraggled as it was, remained intact. Neville shook at the feathers, making futile efforts. “Huh, this stuff _really_ sticks, doesn’t it? Maybe Hermione knows a way? I’ll have to ask her when I get back.”

His path became more apparent, seldom used if the healthy ground cover gave any indication. Neville took his time, bending often to examine a specimen, infrequently tripping on the strange vines crossing at ankle height. He was getting a little worried about the acrid smell, like wood was burning nearby. Fires were natural in some areas, but neither this place was looking less and less like Tanzania.

Chanting muttered through the dense understory, the sound of a dozen voices crying the same phrase at once.

“People!” Neville hurried on, stepping over the next set of vines. His robe snagged, twisting sideways as something brushed past his arm and cheek. He gave an irritated tug, freeing his robe. “No time for this!”

The chanting grew louder; he couldn’t make it out, but the repetition helped guide him; the hills were tall, and the path wound around jungle trees. Dangerous switchbacks almost tricked him into falling off the edge, but it was all in the spirit of fun – he knew. No one would make a trail so dangerous that someone could get _hurt_ , at least, not one so close to public Floo networks.

Neville stopped to catch his breath, admiring a Bird of Paradise. It sang an encouraging song, like Dumbledore’s Phoenix. Perhaps the two were related somehow? Paradise seemed incomplete without a Phoenix-like bird connection.

Resuming his walk, Neville failed to notice a badly-placed stick, connected to a vine winding its way up a strangely vertical tree.

He bumped the stick with one knee, and toppled over the edge. A heavy wind brushed the back of his neck, tugging at his robe. But as Neville fell, he saw the campfire below, surrounded by a dancing circle of tribesmen.

Above, the Bird of Paradise blinked, shifting so the Swinging Doom Blade would not shorten its magnificent tail. The thing had touched the feathers of another bird, and would _never_ touch its own.

Neville’s _Mimbulus_ tried to escape once more. It slipped onto a vine, but Neville was quick enough to lunge forward, sliding along the branch’s length and catch it. The moss was so smooth and deep, he did not notice the rapid-descent.

 

* * *

 

A strange being fell within the center of tribesmen, covered in feathers and holding an ominous looking object in hand. Darkness covered its face, and whirled around its feet. It seemed to mock their strength, pretending to ignore the clear markings of death on the ground, sneering at the armaments wielded by each warrior. One good stab could destroy a jaguar, but this monster believed itself impervious not only to weapons, but perhaps the witch-doctor’s magic as well?

The circle froze – a good sacrifice was one thing. Actually getting what you summoned was something else entirely. As one, two dozen angry pairs of eyes focused on the medicine man responsible for selecting a young maiden everyone had liked, in exchange for some king of occult power no one wanted.

He stepped forwards, hand raised. If it shook, no one would hold it against him – for long.

_“Brother!”_ he called. _“I have summoned you from the depths of nether-lands. Destroy our enemies! Encourage our crops!”_

The monster looked back, unimpressed.

_“Ah – take the women you desire in payment!”_ the medicine man tried again. _“Bring prosperity to our tribe…?”_

The figure started chuckling, repeating a threatening phrase over and over again. No one could understand it – languages of the _daimon_ were not for mortal man to understand. But it obviously could see the young woman tied next to the bonfire. It gestured at her, then at them, then back at her.

_“You want – more?”_ The witch doctor tried translating. This was hard; he was only an apprentice, how should he have known the Ritual of Umulager Slashkilter would work the very first time? They had enough maidens to populate two villages, and they’d been threatening to go on strike if something hadn’t been done about it. They were even threatening to get jobs in the nearby city! But was this worth it?

Chortling, the monstrous figure capered around the fire, then fell. Showers of sparks burst skyward, changing an evil green light. There was a brief scream from the young woman tied to the post – at her insistence, she was strange that way – and the monster was gone.

The witch doctor glanced at the circle of angry men, and one very irritated maiden. He resolved to review his manual again as soon as possible. For now, he’d have to talk things out.

“ _Well then,”_ he shook the Blessed Rattle. “ _Perhaps we could start a cultural exchange? Maybe a café with indigenous dishes?”_

One of the warriors pulled back its mask. He sniffed the air, and spat. _“You say well. My brother-in-law knows a man in the cursed-city-of-money. Cursed it may be, but funding would be easier with help. I’ll send him a smoke signal in the morning.”_

“ _Right.”_ The medicine man shuffled. “ _Right. Um. We’re done for tonight. Could someone untie Walks-With-Hitch-in-Stride? Not you, Strange One.”_

Slowly, the village returned to normal.

* * *

 

_7:45 Hall of Passage_

_Ministry Building_

Neville spun across the polished floor, clutching his precious plant. The fire had returned his clothes’ color back to normal, a relief. Gran was going to be angry enough as it was, having lost his cloak after getting it only a few hours before. Perhaps he could get out his spare before she noticed?

To one side, he saw the strange wizard, rodent in hand, walking rapidly towards a fire. “It’s okay Petey. I have you now, my pretty. Let’s make beautiful music together!”

The rodent made a brief struggle, but vanished in a flash of green flame.

Sighing, Neville got to his feet. Something … had happened. He was certain of it. But whatever it was ….

“Neville?” Harry snapped his fingers. “Something about today, you said?”

Neville looked back, and shook his head. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

 


End file.
